


who could ever leave me (but who could stay?)

by frostfall



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Con Artists, Heist, Insecure Tony, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostfall/pseuds/frostfall
Summary: When Tony Stark's not trying to keep his company from falling apart, he's running heists with the Avengers, a crew of con artists who retrieve illegally-acquired artifacts for their wealthy clients.Steve Rogers is Tony's crewmate and best friend who has joined him on every heist Tony has been on. This current one is no different.Too bad Tony had to muck everything up by sleeping with him three months beforehand.





	who could ever leave me (but who could stay?)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what the Met is like and neither do I know where they store their artifacts or how heists operate so let's suspend our beliefs, shall we?
> 
> Title comes from 'The Archer' by Taylor Swift.

It’s ten in the morning when Tony’s thinking of flinging himself off the balcony.

It’d be so easy, clambering over the railings and just falling. Embrace death with open arms. It’ll be painful, sure. The grass below would barely cushion his landing no matter how thick they are.

But the point is that he’d be dead. And as long that happens, well, Tony wouldn’t care about how it happens.

Fuck, it’s too early for him to wallow in his self-loathing. And cold. Especially cold. It’s forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in the middle of July. Forty-five degrees Fahrenheit and July should never, ever be stuck in the same sentence because it just doesn’t make sense. 

Plus, it’s ten in the morning. It’s ten in the goddamn morning, forty-five degrees in the middle of July, and he’s chilled to the bone.

And the sun’s out. The sun’s shining over his head, what the fuck.

Iceland sure has her priorities screwed up.

He sighs as he swirls his whiskey.

“JARVIS,” Tony says, “remind me never let Peter choose my holiday destination ever again. I know the kid means well but there’s probably a reason why CEOs never ask their interns for recommendations.”

“Noted, sir,” JARVIS answers primly. “I would also like to remind you that you have an incoming call.”

He huffs, spinning on his heel to return inside. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You specifically told me not to let you know if anyone calls.”

“But you’re telling me this now?”

“Your phone has been ringing for ten minutes,” JARVIS replies. “I thought it’d be best to let you know if the call may be urgent.”

Tony sighs, wiping his face. “Is it Pep? I told her I’ll have the plans done by—”

“The call is not coming from your StarkPhone, sir.”

Oh. _That_ phone.

If anyone had told him that he’d be hauling a shitty flip phone around the globe a decade ago, he would’ve laughed at his face and told them that they’re delusional. No Stark would have such an outdated technology on their persons.

And yet, here he is, glaring down at the shitty outdated burner vibrating in his hand.

Tony can’t comprehend who the caller could be. He changed numbers months ago and he’s pretty sure that he didn’t give out his numbers to anyone. Hell, he hasn’t been on a job in forever.

It must be some fake African prince, finally deciding that emails are not the way to go when begging a stranger to harbour millions for him. Tony wonders if they’d be pretending to be the Wakandan prince. That’d be hilarious in retrospect, considering he’s friends with T’Challa.

“H-hello?” Tony bites out, cringing at his chattering teeth muddling his speech. He's definitely not scaring anyone into submission today.

He hears a chuckle from the other end. “Did I just hear the great Tony Stark chattering?”

Tony huffs. Of course. If anyone could’ve found Tony’s number, it’d be him.

“I’m in fucking Iceland, Eye Patch. Of course, my teeth would be chattering. Yours would be too if you were here.”

“I thought Stark men are made of iron,” Fury points out, ignoring Tony’s jab.

“Iron can still be affected by the cold.”

“I can tell.”

“Fuck you,” Tony says half-heartedly.

“Not interested.”

“Hardy ha. You’re a riot.”

He could hear Fury’s smirk on the other end of the line. “Coffee?” 

Tony purses his lips as he drains his glass. He's always up for coffee.

“When and where?” 

* * *

“You know how hard it was to get a hold of you?” Fury grumbles after Tony rattles off his order in perfect Italian to the waitress.

Tony shrugs his shoulders, pushing his slipping sunglasses further up his nose. While he’s glad to be soaking up the summer Milan heat, he’d rather not alert everyone in the city that he had decided to grace them with presence. As far as everyone is concerned, he’s still wiping away his snot in Reykjavik. He’d like to keep it that way.

“Well, I did tell you to set an appointment with Pep if you wanted to see me. I _am_ on vacation.”

Fury scoffs as he takes a sip of his coffee. “And have her coming after my ass? Bitch, please. I know a losing battle when I see one.”

Tony’s gaze drops down to Fury’s cup. The coffee is an odd shade of tan. “Mm-hmm. I can tell.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry I’m not a savage.”

“The fact that you think that having five blocks of sugar and a jug of milk in your coffee is not savagery concerns me.”

They trade several more barbs before the waitress returns with a cup of steaming _black_ coffee and a plate of tiramisu. Seeing the dessert makes Tony’s insides twist.

When his mother wasn’t distant or away with Howard, she’d spend her time in the kitchen making tiramisu. It was the only dessert she could make that was edible.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to order that. Then again, he probably shouldn’t have agreed to come to Italy in the first place. 

“So,” Tony begins as the waitress leaves, eager to escape his thoughts, “spit it out. I doubt we’re here just because you suddenly have the urge to have coffee with me. I know I’m good company but I figured Carol would’ve been better suited for you.”

Fury drops another sugar cube into his revolting concoction. Tony wrinkles his nose in disgust. How anyone could consume that much sugar astounds him.

“You know why.”

Ah. Good. Tony’s been itching to donning his con artist hat for a while now. He hadn’t had the time to do so for the past six months no thanks to his other job. And well, _that_.

“So, what do they want? Dinosaur bones from the Smithsonian?”

“Close. Animal figurines from the Met. Client said they were stolen from him months ago. Whoever it was had them loaned to the Met. And he’d like to have them back.”

Tony nods his head as he lifts his cup, sipping. A soft moan slips out between his lips. He forgot how heavenly Italian coffee is.

“Could you please refrain from having a goddamn orgasm in front of me?”

Tony tilts his head to the side, flashing Fury a sultry smile. “Why, Nicky! I would _never_.”

Fury’s scowl deepens. “I knew I should’ve called Lang.”

Tony takes the jab in his stride. Fury always says stupid shit that he doesn’t mean just to rile him up.

“Lang couldn’t even rob Pym’s place,” Tony counters. “Please, I’ve robbed the fucking Louvre. Thrice. Without being caught. I think snatching up a bunch of figurines should be a piece of cake.”

“It better,” Fury says, a hint of challenge in his tone. “My client wants this done without a hitch. Discreetly. That means only the best of the best are going to be on the team.”

Tony scoffs. “And you thought of calling Lang.”

“Lang’s capable when he can be,” Fury allows. “Does it mean that you’re in?”

Tony picks his fork up, carving a small piece of his tiramisu. “It’s kinda close to home though. Someone might recognize me.”

Fury cocks an eyebrow. “You’re Tony fucking Stark. Your face is on every damn newspaper every week. Since when do you care whether some fucker sees your face?”

Well, he’s not wrong about that.

Tony’s had several close calls over the years, including Rhodey almost walking in on him robbing the Air Force’s Chief of Staff a couple of years back. So far, no one has caught him. Yet. Perks of being a genius, he supposes.

But the thing is, the board members have been breathing down his neck these past few weeks since he decided to take a vacation. A month-long vacation, to be exact. The longest one he has ever taken in all his years at the company. Sure he took it at the behest of his friends but well, it’s been a month.

So if he does this job and then disappears again to take the heat off the crew, well, Tony isn’t sure if Pepper could hold them off any longer.

But god, it’s been six months and Tony’s hands have been yearning. There’s only so much building and planning he could do to satisfy his cravings.

Oh well. He could always pacify Pepper with those pair of Jimmy Choos she’s been eyeing all month. And it’s not like he’s been sitting on his ass in that big ass house of is. All he needs to do is finish up on those plans, send them in, and _voilà_. 

“Oh, I’m definitely in,” Tony says gleefully, leaning against his chair, crossing his legs. “So, who’s going to join our crusade?”

“Banner, Odinson, Romanoff, Barton.” Fury pauses, shooting Tony a meaningful glance. “Rogers.”

The blood coursing through Tony’s veins suddenly turns cold.

Well… Fuck.

If this is, say, three months ago, Tony would’ve gladly hopped on that. After all, he worked best with them. They were the original team and had worked together for a long time.

But now all Tony could think of is that balcony back in Reykjavik and wishes he had done the deed then. 

His horror must’ve shown on his face because Fury pins him with an unimpressed look as he bites down on his biscotti. “Things really are that fucked up, huh?”

“No,” Tony immediately answers, which makes it all the more suspicious. Fury cocks an eyebrow but doesn't push. “Nothing’s fucked up. What’re you on about?”

Fury raises his other eyebrow.

Tony sinks into his seat. 

So he knows.

Great. Just fucking great. Stupid all-seeing bastard.

He shouldn’t be surprised the one-eyed bastard had his suspicions. After all, he’s known Fury for half of his life. That man’s practically his grouchy ass uncle. It's only natural he’d find out somehow.

Oh, fuck. But if Fury knows, it means that everyone would—

“What about Carol?”

“She’s on vacation,” Fury says shortly. Tony resists the urge to call him out on his hypocrite. Carol has always been Fury’s favourite.

“Cage?”

“Still retired.”

“Castle?”

“Unknown.”

“What ‘bout Drax?” Tony continues. “Or Groot? Or—”

“Look,” Fury interrupts, leaning forward as he laces his fingers together, “I need the best on this. And we also both know that Rogers is the best muscle in the business besides Odinson.”

“We wouldn’t need Rogers if we do this discreetly. I mean, we'd have Thor,” Tony notes sourly.

Fury takes another bite of biscotti. “I thought you and Rogers are getting along better nowadays.”

“We are,” Tony snaps before he could stop himself. His fingers tighten around his fork.

“But not at the moment though,” Fury observes.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You called him Rogers.”

“So? That’s his name.”

Fury’s lips twist into a smirk. “You haven’t called him ‘Rogers’ in six years.”

Tony blinks, surprised before frowning. “But I— I mean—” His frustration heightens at Fury’s satisfied expression. He’s tempted to reach over and wipe the smirk off the smug son of a bitch. “You call him Rogers too!”

“That’s because I call everyone by their last names, Stark.”

Well, Fury’s not wrong about that either.

“Well whatever it is, I trust you both to put it behind you.” Tony opens his mouth to refute. “There’s no debate here. Rogers’ agreed to the heist last week.”

Tony clenches his jaw. Of course. The sneaky son of a—

“Look,” Fury picks up his paper napkin, wiping the crumbs off the corners of his mouth, “my client is not a man to take lightly. One slip up and we’re fucked. I need this job done and I know that you are very well suited for this.” He pauses, his hardened expression flickering. “I expect you both to be professional during the entirety of this operation. Unless you think that your emotions will get the better of you during the heist, I suggest you drop out.”

Despite his choice of words, there’s an edge of concern in his tone that leaves Tony half-surprised. Fury has always sucked at showing affection. Better than Howard. But still.

It takes all of Tony’s willpower to not roll his eyes because _Hey, I'm the epitome of professionalism_.

* * *

Tony hadn’t set out to be a modern-day Robin Hood when he left the cave that he was hidden away in. It was only when he was at a black market auction at the behest of Stane two weeks after, did he realize how much a sculpture of a rat could help.

He left the night with the sculpture and gifted them to Yinsen’s family, leaving them five million richer. Somehow, his little crusade invigorated him to look into his kidnapping, have Stane arrested, and finally opted out of the weapons sector. 

After that, one gala became two and then it grew to a museum and before he knew it, Tony was going through disguise after disguise, infiltrating events and places hosting illegally-acquired artifacts and returning them to their rightful places.

Most of the time he was offered money in return for his goodwill. And every time, he made anonymous donations to various organizations.

This went on for a couple of years. Until he met Natasha.

Fiery and stoic Natasha who would later go on to be one of Tony’s best friends, was seeking the exact painting as Tony. They had wrestled over it a while and eventually, the fight had ended in a tie.

“So, Stark,” Natasha began as they laid on the floor, gasping for air, “you seem like a capable guy. My employer’s in the middle of starting a crew and he’s looking for members. You interested?”

And the rest was, what they say, history.

* * *

Ever since Stark Industries’ headquarters shifted to New York, Tony tends to avoid participating in any of the heists in the tri-state area.

He’s only been to the Brooklyn safehouse six times, all to personally oversee the renovation of the place. It used to be a tiny warehouse that stored niche beer, which is something Tony would give anything to have now. The awful hangover he’d have the next day is more appealing than seeing Steve Rogers in the flesh, even if he has to drink shitty beer to get there.

Fortunately for Tony, Steve’s nowhere to be found when he enters. Thor and Clint are sprawled over the couch, sharing a large bag of potato chips and sharing a friendly shouting match. Natasha’s draped over an adjacent loveseat, sharpening a knife. 

Watching the mini chaos around him makes Tony’s heart swells. It’s been a while since the initial members of the Avengers got together for a heist, pulled away by personal commitments. Sure Tony gets along well with Carol, Nebula, and T’Challa, but they’re no Thor or Clint or Natasha. 

All eyes are on him when he steps into the room. Tony puts on his brightest grin as he spreads his arms in greeting. “Missed me?”

As expected, Thor reaches him first, crushing him in a bone-crushing embrace. 

“Friend!” he cries out, his Norwegian accent thicker than usual. Tony finds himself being lifted, his feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground. “It brings me great joy to see you! It has been a long time since we crossed paths!”

“I— Yeah— Good to see you too, big guy.”

Clint snickers behind them. “Alright, man. Give Stark some time to breathe. He looks like he’s going to pass out.”

“Apologies,” Thor says cheerfully as he sets Tony back down. His luscious blonde locks have been chopped off, replaced with a much shorter haircut. Tony’s going to miss those tresses. “I was just overcome with great emotion. It is truly good to see you have truly recovered from your harrowing ordeal.”

Next to Thor, Natasha nudges him with her elbow. Just like him, she has gotten a new hairstyle too, her fiery mane dusted with platinum blonde at the ends, tied in a braid.

Tony frowns. “Recovered? What’re you—?”

The memory hits him like a ton of bricks.

Oh. Right. That.

How could he forget? It was all the gossip columns and the business news would talk about for the past couple of months. How Tony Stark, party animal and major alcoholic had wound up in the hospital just because his body couldn’t take several glasses more scotch than usual. Those two weeks of lying in the hospital had been surreal, to say the least.

“What he means is that we’re glad you’re okay,” Natasha says, tossing Thor a meaningful look. “Even if you ghosted us for _months_.”

The implied ‘_and me_’ hangs uncomfortably in the air.

Tony shrugs. “You know me, always changing numbers.”

Her eyes narrow at that, her lips set in a grim line.

Sometimes, Tony forgets that Natasha used to be a spy for the KGB. Or Interpol. Or something of the sort. Even after all these years, she’s still tight-lipped about that.

“Well,” she says, her features softening, “as long as you’re okay.” She presses a soft kiss on his cheek.

“You know me,” Tony replies, flashing her a grin, hoping it would ease her wariness. “A little alcohol poisoning can’t stop me. All I got was yelled at by everyone at SI for making the stocks plummet and make a public apology. You know, the usual.”

Clint’s up next, stepping forward to wrap him in a one-armed hug. He’s the only one that looks exactly like the last time they met, sans the band-aid plastered over the bridge of his nose. “Nice of you to finally join civilization again. A little birdie told me you decided to head north to birdwatch penguins.”

“You might think you’re being clever, Birdbrain,” Tony drawls, “but that joke shows off your IQ level.”

They pass the time by helping each other catch up with everything that’s happened since they last met. For the first time since his last encounter with Steve, Tony’s heart feels lighter.

Sure, he has Pepper and Rhodey but it’s different. Not only are they blissfully unaware of Tony’s side project, but they’re also married to their jobs, which includes dealing with the baggage that comes with being Tony Stark.

With the Avengers, he can forget that he’s Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, a man who has the blood of countless innocents on his hands, and his father’s biggest failure. With them, he’s just Tony, their idiotic crewmate who spends way too much time on going over alarm systems than he should.

Thor’s in the middle of a tale that includes his asshole brother, a snake, and a rubber duck when the rest of the crew appears with bags of Chinese takeout.

Tony immediately makes a beeline for Bruce, wrapping him in a tight embrace. “Hey there, Science Bro. How're things? Last I heard, you’re almost done with your research.”

Bruce smiles shyly. “I’m good. And yeah, I’m actually done with it. Been busy with writing up my journal. Which I kinda want you to go through. I need someone else’s opinion on it.”

Tony’s grin widens as he pulls away. Both of them had immediately hit it off when they first met, bonding over their mutual love for science. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And then he sees him.

Steve Rogers.

After three months of anger, confusion, and acceptable, they finally meet again.

Tony hates how good Steve looks, dressed in a grey Henley that’s definitely a size too small that shows off his toned body, blonde hair combed back, and eye bags that mar his clear azure eyes. He looks exactly like the last time they met, sans the stubble littering his sharp jaw. 

He's beautiful. He’s still the most beautiful person Tony has ever laid his eyes on and he hates how unfair this whole debacle is. 

Then again, it makes sense. It’s his fault shit happened.

“Tony,” Steve breathes, his chapped lips parted.

Images flood his mind and suddenly he’s back there in the dark, his brain induced by alcohol and lust. A hand wrapped around him as Steve breathes into his neck and then Tony’s crying and writhing against him and— and—

Heat crawls up his neck. Tony quickly averts his gaze, willing the memories away. He shouldn’t be looking at Steve’s lips. Tony’s fixture on his lips is what got him into this mess in the first place anyway.

“Rogers.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the smile slips off Steve’s face. A wave of guilt hits Tony.

There he goes again, fucking everything up. Tony had already messed things up. He shouldn’t be making things worse than it already is.

He can’t let his feelings get in the way of the heist. He can have his mental breakdown after.

“So,” Tony says, mustering as much cheer into his tone as he can, “shall we begin?”

* * *

This time, their client’s the Grandmaster, a weird eccentric mafia boss that spends his time organizing illegal underground fights and who’s eager to have his stolen figurines back in his hands.

He also has one of the stupidest aliases Tony has ever heard in his life. And he has dealt with the Collector before.

“Ah, the Grandmaster,” Thor spits their client’s name out like it’s venom, “my brother and I have crossed paths with him once many moons ago.”

Tony snorts into a box of orange chicken. It’s sentences like these that have him wondering if Thor’s secretly immortal, a time-traveller, or reads one too many Shakespeare plays.

“Let me guess, things didn’t end well between the three of you,” Clint says as he twirls a pair of chopsticks between his fingers.

Thor shakes his head gravely. “Not for I. However, he and my brother got along quite well. It was the summer of 2016 that I had caught them—”

“TMI, Thor,” Tony interrupts, shuddering at the thought of some weird old man and Thor’s goth brother having— Yeah, he’s not going to finish that thought. There are just some things Tony doesn’t need to know. He’d like to finish his food without hurling. “TMI.”

The rest of the meeting goes over smoothly. Unsurprisingly, Fury, Steve, and Natasha have already sketched out a plan. Tony usually doesn’t have any problems with their plans. They’re always thorough and simple, utilizing everyone’s talents to the maximum. Another reason why he’s proud to be a part of the best crew in the business.

Tony sags in relief when his role is decided. The last couple of heists had him behind a computer and away from the chaos. While Tony doesn’t mind having his hacking skills utilized, he’d rather be in the fray of everything.

When Fury finally allows everyone to disperse, Tony immediately makes a beeline for Bruce, prodding him about Bruce’s research. Thankfully, Bruce doesn’t seem to notice Tony’s overenthusiasm, responding in a similar fashion.

In fact, no one seems to bring up the sudden tension between Steve and Tony or how they barely address one another unless absolutely necessary.

Which is good. Very good. The last thing Tony wants is getting booted off the heist. He has already fucked up one too many things up.

* * *

Some deity must’ve been looking out for Tony because he somehow manages to avoid Steve for the next several days. Granted, it’s only because time wouldn’t permit them to meet.

Tony’s a busy man. Even when he’s not donning his CEO hat, he’s still swarmed when preparing for heists. Since he’s the inventor of the group, he’s crafting everything they’d require, including the fake artifacts that they’d leave in place when they run off with the real ones. And when he’s not doing that, Tony would be going over the security systems with Bruce. It helps that Steve is away with the rest most of the time, establishing their identities for the operation.

When they do find themselves in the same vicinity, Tony makes sure to drag someone else into a long-winded conversation or makes himself scarce. He even goes as far as to bar Steve from his workshop in case he shows up, much to JARVIS’ indignation. Luckily for Tony, he never does.

Which hurts. It shouldn’t. Not after what he had done.

But he can’t stop his heart from aching every time he hears Steve laugh at one of Clint’s shitty puns or watches Steve smile fondly when Thor goes into one of his lengthy and convoluted stories. All those moments hammer home the fact that Tony will never have that shared with him ever again.

They never should’ve taken their friendship outside of work in the first place. Nothing ever comes out of ruining a decade long friendship with a one-night stand fuelled by alcohol.

But of course just because neither of them wants to speak about it, doesn’t mean other people won’t.

* * *

“Want to shed some light on what Steve did to you?” Natasha asks as soon as Tony walks through the workshop doors. She’s casually lounging on Tony’s couch, armed with a bowl of cornflakes.

“Jesus!” Tony exclaims, laying a hand over his heart. “You do know I have a weak heart, right?”

Natasha ignores him, gesturing to one of his worktables. On it sits his Iron Man mug, coffee filled to the brim. The aroma of roasted coffee beans hitting his nostrils makes Tony careen over for a sip.

This is one of the many reasons why she’s one of his best friends. Natasha may put up the scary routine all she likes but she cares. Just like Steve who’d bring him coffee and then sit on the couch and sketch while they talk and—

He stops in his tracks, his brain finally registering Natasha’s expectant look.

Of course. Her generosity had to come with a reason.

“What makes you think he did anything?” Tony asks after a gulp. “For all you know, I’m the one who fucked things up.”

“Did you?”

Tony shuts his eyelids before nodding.

“Then explain to me why every time Steve looks your way, it’s with regret?”

Tony’s eyes snap open. “No, he doesn’t.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow as she spoons cornflakes into her mouth.

“He doesn’t!” Tony insists. “You’re just imagining things. Or projecting! You have to be projecting. Tell me, is there trouble in paradise? Because I can definitely send a hitman—”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “James and I are doing fine. If there’s anyone that needs a hitman, it’d be you.”

Tony’s lips curl into a smirk. “I’ll let you know when your services are needed.”

She shakes her head, a fond smile on her lips. “I don’t know why I thought that asking you would’ve been a good idea,” she says as she jumps to her feet, making a beeline for the door.

“Hey!” Tony calls after her. “You’re not gonna ask him, right? ‘Cause he’s a hundred times more stubborn than I am and— Tasha! Tasha, are you listening to me?!” 

* * *

The cold shoulder routine ends on the sixth day.

It’s around two in the morning when JARVIS successfully persuades Tony to get a couple of hours of sleep. Tony hasn’t slept for thirty hours, running only on coffee. Tony would’ve put on a fight had he not been on the brink of burning down his workshop, which JARVIS helpfully pointed out, and that everyone isn’t already in bed.

Which is why he almost backtracks when he finds Steve mulling around on the other side of the door, dressed in a tight blue T-shirt and striped pyjama pants. Judging by the faint scent of peppermint wafting through the air, he has just taken a shower.

And his hair is brown.

Steve’s hair is a dark shade of brown and he looks absolutely breathtaking.

God.

Holy mother—

“Tony?” Steve begins, his voice rough and hesitant. The spark behind Steve’s azure eyes is gone, his eyebags thicker than Tony last saw him. Tony’s heart clenches.

He did this. He made Steve miserable.

It’s all his fault.

“Can we talk?”

A surge of panic rises up in his chest, annoyance following after.

Of course JARVIS didn’t mention Steve’s presence to Tony. He’s been trying to get Tony to speak to him for days.

And Natasha. Can’t forget her. Tony can’t figure out who else could persuade Steve to speak to Tony. 

One of these days, he’s going to hide her ballet shoes among Thor’s tankard collection. There’s a possibility of him getting castrated but hey, you never know.

“Um, I was thinking of getting a little shuteye.” Tony lets out a false chuckle, wincing as soon as the sound leaves his lips. “Uh, you know me. Never getting enough sleep and—” 

Steve’s lips twist into a pout. Tony has always been a sucker for it. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“A minute, you say?” Tony tilts his head upwards. “JARVIS, please count down from—”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Steve blurts out before wincing. “Wanted to see if you’re okay.”

Tony arches an eyebrow, his heart skipping a beat. 

Yup, Natasha definitely put him up to this.

“Well, I’m here talking to you, aren’t I?”

“That’s not—” Steve runs his fingers through his hair, his brow furrowed. Tony’s eyes definitely aren’t tracking the movement. “You didn’t pick up my calls.”

“I changed my number.”

Steve inhales sharply. “I’m not talking about your burner.”

Tony flinches.

Okay, Tony definitely deserves that. It was a dick move, ignoring the countless calls and texts blowing up both his personal and flip phone. Throughout his tenure at the hospital, Tony made sure to ignore them, not wanting to know if Steve had finally decided to break the silence between them. He’s the only one in the Avengers that has his personal number.

In his defence, how the hell is he going to talk about his problem to the man that was the reason he drank himself near death?

“I just needed time to myself. I wasn’t in a good place.”

“You could’ve called me after.”

“I’m sorry.”

Steve’s features soften. “I know” he murmurs, reaching over to wrap his fingers around Tony’s arm. His body stiffens at the touch. Steve quickly pulls away, as if he had been burnt. Tony’s heart caves further.

“I wanted to visit but after…” Steve ducks his head, his gaze glued to the ground. “Well, you know…”

A lump forms in Tony’s throat.

Right. After Tony got stupidly drunk and fucked his totally straight best friend.

He still can’t figure out why Steve would even look at him, let alone speak to him. If he was Steve, he would’ve gotten a restraining order the morning after.

Then again, he is Steve Rogers, the glowing example of perfection and all that’s good in the universe. 

“It’s cool,” Tony forces out, his lips spreading in what he hopes to be a believable smile. “Like I said before, I’m fine.”

Judging by Steve’s clenched jaw, it’s not believable enough.

So Tony does the next best thing – run.

He has only taken a couple of steps further when Steve stops him in his tracks.

“About that night—”

Tony suppresses the urge to tear his hair out.

Why couldn’t he just let it go? Why won’t Steve toss him to the side like everyone else did? What does he want Tony to do? Drop down to his knees and beg for his forgiveness, disappear off the face of the Earth after the end of the heist?

He hates that his first instinct is to agree with that. That’s the problem with his relationship with Steve Rogers. He’d do anything for him. Hell, he’ll take a bullet for Steve if that’s what he wants.

Which based on experience, he doesn’t. But hey, people do stupid shit for the people they care about, right?

Including letting go of said people.

“Don’t worry. Won’t happen again. It was a mistake.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“A…mistake.”

“Yup,” Tony continues, his voice wrapped in false cheer, as if he’s not watching his friendship dissolve into nothing. “So don’t worry your pretty little mind of me ever coming on to you. I was drunk, after all.”

“But—”

“If you’re worried that whatever happened between us would fuck up the operation, don’t worry about that. I’m a professional, after all.”

Steve makes a disgruntled noise. “I’m not— I wasn’t thinking that!”

Tony blinks at the sudden outburst. “Uh, okay. Good. Good, good, good, good, good. Now, if you’d excuse me—”

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Tony whirls around, stunned. Steve looks…defeated. Exhausted, which Tony can’t figure out why.

“What?”

“Friends,” Steve repeats ruefully. He exhales, sounding oddly shaky. All of a sudden, he looks like he has aged a decade. “We’re still friends, right?”

Tony’s eyelids flutter.

Friends.

Steve still wants to be friends.

After everything that has happened, after seeing Tony for who he is, after finding out that what the media has said about Tony is true, Steve still wants to be friends.

Steve still wants to be friends with Tony fucking Stark, the man who had singlehandedly wrecked their relationship.

Tony must have misheard. He can’t— He can’t—

“You still want us to be friends.”

Steve nods.

Jesus Christ. 

None of the people he slept with wanted anything to do with him the next morning. And the fact that— that—

Jesus fucking Christ.

Tony smiles tightly, his stomach churning. “Yeah, friends.”

Before Steve could reply, Tony stalks past him, eager to lock himself in his room and wrestle his misery under the covers.

* * *

Their relationship hasn’t always been riddled with strife and angst.

Tony won’t deny that the rocky start to their first heist. The days leading up to the heist were spent engaging in with verbal arguments and a physical one that left their faces riddled with cuts and Tony gaining a black eye.

But after they made their escape with the police hot on their heels, any animosity between both of them evaporated. The rest of the crew had marvelled at their spontaneous but seamless teamwork and by the time they've gotten away with the score, Tony had enough money to make an anonymous donation to thirty orphanages, wiring a million dollars each.

Ever since then, he and Steve had worked on every heist together, their strong bond soon translating outside of work.

The public ate them up, amazed that Steve Rogers, the ex-army captain and comic book artist would allow himself around Tony Stark the fuckup, let alone best friends. After all, they were polar opposites. They should not get along.

And no matter how much Tony wishes that to be true sometimes, Steve wouldn’t let him. He’s perfect. Steve Rogers is perfect.

Which is probably why Tony kicks himself daily for falling in love with him.

He’s not sure when it all started, but looking back, it seemed like a matter of time. Tony fell hard and fast often and with Steve being Steve, it was inevitable.

Steve’s different that most of the people Tony had been attracted to. Sure, he’s a looker like the rest and Tony would go so far as to say he’s a modern-day Adonis, with tousled blonde hair, clear azure eyes, and perfectly sculpted body, but what sets him apart from the rest is his heart. 

He’d swing by Tony’s workshop with coffee and coax him to bed out of concern instead of lust, treat JARVIS and Tony’s other androids like they’re made of flesh and blood, keep up with Tony’s chatty demeanour, and above all, not letting the media or Tony’s despicable past cloud his judgment of Tony.

He’s arguably the best thing that has ever happened to Tony.

Too bad Tony and good things could never get along.

* * *

The days leading up to the heist breeze by and before Tony realizes it, it’s time to ready his disguise.

So after quadruple checking the security systems with Bruce, Tony wanders down to the gym where Natasha’s holed up at. Every time when they’re on the same crew and Tony’s in need to be on the field in disguise, she’s his go-to person for help. Her dyeing and shaving skills are just flawless.

The doors to the gym slide open. Tony expects to see her going at one of the punching bags in the corner.

Instead, she’s in the ring, flat on her back and pinned to the ground by Steve Rogers, who he still isn’t talking to.

Which Tony admits is his entirely his fault. Steve has tried engaging him in conversation every time they wound up in each other’s paths and Tony never failed to turn him down. He knows he’s making things worse. He knows that he’s at fault for Steve’s crumpled expression every time Tony brushes him off.

It’s just so fucking hard to meet those sky blue eyes and not _fall_.

Maybe they could never go back to being friends. He ruined them.

“You didn’t tell me he’s here,” Tony mutters under his breath.

“Apologies, sir,” JARVIS replies quietly, sounding anything but. “I thought it wouldn’t be necessary.”

Wouldn’t be necessary, his ass.

A clear laugh cuts through the air, snapping his attention back to the people in front of him.

Steve’s head is tilted downwards, his lips moving. Even from afar, Tony could see the amusement behind Steve’s eyes, how his shoulders are tense from gripping Natasha’s arms above her head, and fuck, he just realized—

Steve’s stubble. Steve’s stubble has grown into a beard.

Or some variation of a beard, anyway. It’s still too stumpy to be considered a beard. It looks a little prickly, and Tony’s sure it wouldn’t feel nice to run his fingers through it and what the hell is wrong with him? He’s acting like he hasn’t seen a beard in his life, Jesus Christ.

Well then again, Steve has never grown one in all the years Tony has known him.

And now here he is, with dark brown hair and a several-day old beard, his white T-shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his perfectly sculpted chest that’s heaving and fuck, are those his nipples poking—?

“Tony?”

Tony snaps out of his reverie. Steve and Natasha are on their feet, puzzlement written over their faces.

Well, Steve’s the only one that looks confused. Natasha is watching Tony with a blatantly smug look.

Tony blinks.

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. Natasha’s smirk widens.

Oh fuck. He is so fucking screwed.

He should say something. Just tell Natasha he needs her services and fuck, Steve looks glorious—

“Tony?”

Fuck everything in life.

Tony sucks in a breath. He’ll announce the reason he stopped by and then Natasha will tell him to wait for her and Tony will tell her to meet him in his bathroom and then he’ll walk out with his head held high and his pride intact.

“I— Er— Tasha— Dye.”

He blinks again.

Steve and Natasha exchange a look.

And then he bolts out of the room.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Natasha finds him licking his wounds in his bathroom, smelling of fresh apples and lavender.

“Shut up,” Tony groans into his hands, sinking deeper into his empty bathtub.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking of it.”

Through his fingers, he watches Natasha roll her eyes. “You two are the dumbest men on the planet. And I’ve known Clint for half of my life.”

“Hey!”

Natasha drops her toiletry bag onto the toilet bowl, pinning him with an exasperated scowl. “The pining was amusing at first but now? It’s just pathetic. I told Steve to talk to you.”

“He did. We talked,” Tony says defensively before his brain catches up with him. “And I’m not pining.”

Natasha exhales deeply. “I’m not touching this trainwreck with a ten-foot pole,” she says tiredly before digging through her bag. She mutters something incomprehensible as she does so. It’s probably Russian.

Tony should get some lessons, pick up some useful words to pepper in during board meetings. Maybe he’ll ask Barnes. Assuming he doesn’t murder him for sleeping with his best friend.

“So,” Natasha says, holding out two boxes of dye, “burgundy or bright auburn?”

* * *

To keep the employees at the Met busy, Fury had arranged for the heist to be held at the same time as an art exhibition. And since everyone attending would consist of the rich and famous, it’s a no-brainer that Tony was chosen to blend in with them. 

It had come down to either Steve or him, Steve due to his vast knowledge of art and Tony for obvious reasons. But then Clint pointed out Steve’s terrible skills in small talk and well, that settled things.

And also according to him, Tony wouldn’t make a good security guard.

Which is totally wrong. He can totally pull off the stoic, scary vibe, thank you very much.

So here he is as Doctor Howard Potts, fake surgeon at SHIELD Securities with a fake penchant for of Post-Impressionist paintings.

Fortunately for him, no one bats an eye at his job (listening to Strange’s droning apparently pays off) or thinks that he’s spouting bullshit about art (thank god for all those years of listening to Steve’s gush). The perks of being the most charming person in existence, he supposes.

“May I interest you with a drink, sir?” Clint asks Tony, holding out his tray. To the public, Clint sounds polite to the point of disinterest. But Tony has worked with Clint long enough to recognize the mock flirtation in his tone.

“Yes, you may,” Tony replies coyly, plucking a champagne flute before giving his friend a once-over.

Someone growls in his ear, startling him, almost losing his grip on the glass in his hand.

“Stand down, Rogers,” Clint says teasingly as he saunters away. “I’m not stealing your man. Chill.”

Steve splutters. “I was not— I just—”

“Boys,” Natasha cuts in, “no chatter over the comms.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Too bad,” Natasha replies sweetly. “You lost your rights when you and Barton decided to have your pissing contest.”

“It was not—”

“I must agree with Natasha,” Thor says solemnly. “You sounded quite jealous of Tony and Clint’s blossoming—”

“I was not!” Steve hisses, earning a guffaw from Thor and a quiet chuckle from someone else. Must be Bruce.

“Why thank you, Thor,” Clint says cheerfully, “I’ll make sure you’ll be best man at the wedding.”

“If that’s the case you’re not invited to _my_ wedding.”

Clint whines.

“I thought you told everyone to shut up,” Tony murmurs between his champagne, torn between amusement and mortification.

“Couldn’t resist busting Barton’s chops,” Natasha replies.

Someone huffs into the comms. It’s either Steve or Clint. More likely to be Clint though.

Tony scans the room, his eyes finally landing on a familiar figure in a corner.

Like always, Steve looks absolutely edible, much more so if he had agreed to let Tony dress him in Tom Ford. But _no_, he has to insist on that four-year-old Walmart crap. It’s a tragedy, that’s what it is. Tony’s going to rectify this once this is all over. He’s going to call Jan up once this is all over and— and—

And tell her to do absolutely nothing because Steve will never accept anything from Tony ever again because they’re ruined and Steve is chatting away to the pretty brunette by his side and fuck, is no time to be jealous. They have bigger things to worry about, a heist to complete.

And speaking of jealous, was Steve actually jealous at Tony and Clint’s banter. Frankly, he doesn’t sound jealous to Tony. More exasperated maybe. He usually is when everyone goes off-track.

Besides, why the hell would Steve be jealous?

He sighs as he drains the last of his champagne and depositing it onto a passing server’s tray. God, if only he could get himself another drink. 

Instead, he continues making his rounds, striking conversations with other patrons while checking on his friends every now and then. He spots Clint several paintings away, presenting his tray to a woman that Tony’s certain is Rihanna. Steve’s no longer in sight. Neither is the brunette.

He wonders if she managed to lure him away to somewhere quieter, with fewer people around. Steve isn’t the type to go fucking around in closets during heists but well, this could be the first.

“Thor and I are in position,” Natasha pipes up minutes later while Tony’s in the middle of a debate with a socialite about the best shade of red, which every sane person knows it’s cadmium red and not maroon. 

Tony stands straighter, ready to bolt.

Showtime.

“Sorry, darling,” Tony says, flashing her a wink. “Gotta make a quick stop to the bathroom.”

The socialite pouts. “Don’t take too long.”

Someone snickers over the comms.

“Don’t take too long, Mr Potts! I’m in the need of your—” 

“Shut up, Barton,” Tony hisses as he heads in the direction of the bathroom. Which so happens to be near the elevator that he’s definitely not taking up meet up his fellow con artists. No sirree.

While he’s not as stealthy as Natasha or Clint, he manages to make his way upstairs without anyone noticing. Of course, it wouldn’t be possible if Bruce hadn’t hacked the cameras either.

But Tony has always been wary when things run too smoothly. It means something bad is going to happen very, very soon.

As if on cue, Bruce’s voice pops up over the comms.

“Uh, Tony? There’s—”

“Hey!”

Tony freezes in his tracks, jerking his head upwards.

A dark-haired man with a scowl is marching up to him from the other end of the corridor, dressed in a regular security guard uniform.

Alarm bells ring in Tony’s head. No one should be here. This hallway should be deserted. Thor should’ve taken care of that.

He ducks his head.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Fuck, he’s running out of time and options. There are only two solutions that he could think of at the moment –knocking the guard out or lying between his teeth. The first one is definitely out of the question. Which means he has about five seconds to come up with a believable—

“Howard?”

Tony spins on his heel, his eyes locking with a pair of blue eyes. He almost falls.

It’s Steve.

What the hell’s he doing up here? He should be downstairs, being a perfect little guard and making sure no one winds upstairs. Does Steve really think he’s that incapable of handling some stupid security guard? Sure they aren’t best friends at the moment but—

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Steve says sternly, his features schooled in worry. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

The guard switches his sneer to Steve. Tony’s fingers balls into a fist involuntarily. “You know him, Stevens?”

Steve nods earnestly as he laces his fingers with Tony. “Yeah, he’s my boyfriend.”

Tony almost chokes on his saliva. He’s not the only one that’s stunned.

“I told you! Tasha, you owe me—”

The guard narrows his eyes, suspicion evident as he darts between Steve and Tony. “Your...boyfriend?”

“Yup,” Steve answers cooly before turning his attention to Tony. “Babe, we went through this—” 

“I know,” Tony says, managing to find his voice. “I just— I was just curious. You promised me you’d take me up to the roof garden tonight.”

“I know,” Steve says gently, worrying the back of Tony’s palm with his thumb. “But tonight’s not a good—” 

Tony juts his lips out in a pout. “But you promised.”

Something passes over Steve’s eyes but it’s gone before Tony could recognize what it is. “Babe—”

“Roof garden’s closed tonight,” the security guard cuts in curtly, his voice rough like sandpaper. Tony bets he smokes a couple of packs a day. “I don’t know what the policies are at your security firm but here at the Met, we don’t let out boyfriends run around places where he shouldn’t be at.”

Steve nods. “I understand. I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again.”

The guard grunts in response, rubbing his stubbled chin. “It better. If I see you or him crawling around up here, I’m filing a complaint against you. See if your hotshot company keeps you around any time soon.”

With one last glare, he storms past them towards the elevators.

“Asshole,” Tony mumbles, as soon as Rumlow is out of earshot, “what’s his problem anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Steve answers, sounding distracted. “Rumlow’s always a stick in the mud.”

“Ah, Rumlow,” Thor says solemnly. “That man brings nothing but trouble. I suspect he is envious of Steve’s physique and intellect and—”

Clint snickers. “Someone has a crush.”

Tony ignores the two of them, choosing to voice out the question hovering at the back of his mind. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

Steve has the decency to look embarrassed. “I thought you’d need backup,” he explains, pulling away from his grip. Tony hadn’t realized they were holding hands until now. “I heard Rumlow might be skulking around. He likes to wander up here sometimes. Smoke a cigarette when no one’s looking. I was just worried he’d—”

Tony inhales, his initial annoyance slowly dissipating. They’ve gotten each other out of situations like this before. Steve’s just looking out for him. Tony can’t be mad because of that. 

“I could’ve handled it myself, you know.”

“I know,” Steve agrees. “I just…panicked.”

A light blush blooms over his cheeks. It’s an adorable sight.

“What about Clint? Kinda risky of having him downstairs on his own.”

“I’m fine,” Clint pipes up. “Nothing out of the ordinary so far. I’ve got Bruce.”

“I apologize,” Thor adds. “I forgot about Rumlow. I assumed—”

“It’s fine,” Tony says dismissively. “What matters is that he fucked off in the end. Just keep us posted, Brucie.”

“Will do.”

Tony hums before turning back to Steve. “You gonna head back down?”

Steve rubs a hand over his beard, a movement that shouldn’t look as hot as it should. Stupid goddamn beard.

“Yeah. Probably before everyone finds out I’m gone.”

Tony bobs his head. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling uncertain all of a sudden. “And uh, thanks.”

Steve’s lips curl upwards. “No problem.”

Tony’s heart skips. He turns on his heel, eager to get out of this really weird situation when Steve calls his name. 

He glances over his shoulder.

Steve smiles shyly. “You look good. And I’m not just talking about the suit. Like your hair. The, uh… The ash blonde… It looks good on you.”

An involuntary smile creeps up on Tony’s own lips, feeling bashful and nostalgic.

Well, that’s something.

“Well, you look good with brown hair.”

Steve’s smile widens. Tony mirrors him.

Maybe, just maybe, they’ll be okay.

“You look good clean-shaven too.”

Tony almost trips over his own feet.

Someone over their comms makes a retching noise.

“Can it, Katniss,” Tony mutters, his cheeks burning.

“It wasn’t me! It was Fury!”

“Bitch, did you just insinuate—?”

“Guys,” Bruce cuts in serenely, “I think it’s best you guys keep your mouths shut before I pop a vessel.”

Much to Tony’s amazement, both of them do. Then again, it’s Bruce. No one dares anger Bruce. Trust him, Tony has learned that the hard way.

* * *

“You took your own sweet time,” Natasha drawls when Tony finally joins Thor and her.

Tony tosses her a lazy grin. “What can I say? The view from up here is to die for.”

It takes JARVIS a second to disable the alarm system. Tony lets out a quiet whoop. He can’t help it. His brain is always buzzing with epinephrine during heists.

“Open sesame.”

Natasha rolls her eyes as she and Tony make their way inside, leaving Thor behind to stand guard by the door.

Unsurprisingly, there are a couple more doors before they’re able to make it into storage, which JARVIS does with ease.

Storage isn’t as crowded as Tony would’ve thought, the artifacts either covered in cloth or behind glass. But then again, artifacts are always on loan around the world anyway.

“I still can’t believe the Grandmaster used to own figurines of baboons,” Tony complains as he pulls on a pair of gloves. He picks one of them off the pedestal, waving it in the air. “Look at this! Even a kindergartener would’ve made a better looking baboon! This looks like a tiki statue that has its face melted off.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow as she switches a figurine with a fake. Tony couldn’t help the swell of pride coursing through him. He spent over a week crafting the fakes, making sure they’re an exact replica of their original counterparts. Only the best forgery experts would be able to tell. And even then, they’d have to use the best technology in the market. 

And by the time they discover the swap, well, five more charities would be a million richer. Each.

“At least it looks better than the naked statue we had to haul out of that mansion in Peru for Ronan.”

Tony makes a face. “Ugh, don’t remind me. That thing still gives me nightmares.”

They’re in and out of the storage room in about five minutes.

“You have them?” Thor asks as he detaches himself from the wall.

Tony nods in affirmation before returning his attention to his comm. “Okay, Brucie Bear. Lights out.”

And just like that, they’re bathed in nothing but darkness.

* * *

Since Tony isn’t posing as a staff member, it makes sense for him to split from Thor and Natasha and make his grand escape through the front.

That is if he could actually navigate the stupid place in the dark.

Technically, Tony could turn his phone light on but since Bruce had overloaded the power in the museum, it’ll heighten the risk of him running into a guard. All he could do is have Bruce guide him over the comms, which also would help if Clint isn’t doing the same for Thor and Natasha at the same time.

He’s in the midst of mapping out an improved earpiece with private lines when he hears footsteps approaching behind him.

“Tony,” Bruce says. “Got a couple of guards heading your way.”

“Front or back?”

“Both.”

Tony curses under his breath. “Seriously? Of all the— Ack!”

Someone cries his name over the comms as he’s hauled into what feels like a diverging corridor. He’s thrusted backwards, his back colliding with a solid surface. A palm splays over Tony’s chest, another covering his mouth.

On instinct, he sinks his teeth. His assailant yanks their palm away in response. Tony shoves them away in a bid to escape, only to have fingers digging into his shoulders, pressing him back in place.

“It’s me,” his assailant hisses.

Tony freezes in place. “Steve?”

Steve’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“What the hell?” Tony continues. “What’re you—?”

A finger presses against his lips, shutting him up.

The footsteps seem to have grown louder over the course of his struggling. Tony’s anxiety shoots upwards.

God, they’re screwed. They’re so fucking screwed. What the fuck are they gonna do? They’re sitting ducks. They have nowhere to go. Eventually, someone’s going to find them and— and—

An idea pops up in his head.

It’s a stupid idea. A really, really stupid idea. A stupid idea that might not even work. A stupid idea that might not work but will guarantee the end of Tony’s friendship (or currently lack thereof with Steve).

But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

“Do you trust me?”

“I do,” Steve answers without hesitation. “Why’re you—?”

“Kiss me.”

Steve doesn’t speak for a long second. Tony could imagine the expression his face is pulling.

Probably has his jaw hanging in shock and indignation and planning to have Tony murdered when this is all over. Maybe he’ll get Barnes and Sam to stab him twenty-eight times, toss him over the Brooklyn Bridge and—

“What?”

Natasha’s words pop up in his head, ones uttered a long time ago.

“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable,” Tony repeats hurriedly, his heart railing against his ribcage. The footsteps are much closer now. Heck, the guards are probably going to round the corner any second now.

A warm sensation tickles Tony’s lips, hot and wet and oh.

_Oh_.

Under layers of clothing, his dick twitches.

Fuck.

“Kiss me,” Tony breathes.

For a split second, Tony’s thinking of how it’d be like his jaw broken by Steve Rogers when he hears a hoarse, “Okay,” and just like that, his brain is short-circuiting.

Because holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

This isn’t the first time they’ve kissed. Not that he could fully remember how it started and felt and tasted like. The whiskey made sure of that.

But in this moment, he could imagine what it was like. Steve’s lips are chapped and sweet and searing, tasting of stale coffee and chocolate and mint. He kisses like a man that’s drowning and falling and Tony lets him take and take and take. 

Tony lets out a quiet gasp, allowing Steve’s tongue access and it’s wet. It’s wet and hot and god, he tastes so _good_.

A hand slips to the back of Tony’s neck, edging them closer and fuck, how could’ve he gone on living without this? How could they go back to being friends after Tony let tasted what could’ve been?

He could hear feet stomping on the ground and maybe some murmuring but the sounds are faraway and Steve’s beard prickling Tony’s smooth jaw adds to the whole experience, coaxing a quiet whimper out of Tony at the sensation and then he can’t hear anything but Steve groaning as their tongues brush and Tony’s hooking a leg around Steve’s waist, moaning like a bitch in heat himself and—

And suddenly he’s bathed in total whiteness. Tony immediately pushes Steve off him, startled, his eyes squinting on instinct.

The torchlights lower, allowing enough light for Tony to spot the group of security guards staring at them with varying shades of horror, shock, and anger.

“Seriously?” Rumlow rasps.

Tony waves at them, plastering on his winning smile. “Hey, guys. Hope you enjoyed the show."

* * *

In the end, Steve and Tony are hauled off to the Head of Security’s office, which is exactly what Tony wholly expects out of the liplock.

Fortunately for them, everything turns up fine. Steve winds up with a termination from the private security firm he had been working for and both of them an earful from the Head of Security and their names erased out of the possibility of them being at fault for the power outage. Witnessing the guards’ reaction to Bruce returning the electricity back mid-lecture’s worth the yelling Tony’s poor ears had to endure.

“If there’s any consolation in regards to your misfortune,” Thor says through the comms as Steve and Tony make their way towards the meeting point – an alleyway several blocks away from the museum. “Steve would not need to come up with excuses for his sudden departure from the firm.”

“Also, speaking of your passionate make-out session—”

“No one was talking about it,” Steve says tiredly.

“—can I just say that I’m a little turned on right now. Like dude. You two should make a porno and— Ow!”

Tony jots down a mental note to send Natasha a year’s supply of her favourite lipstick when he can.

The rest of the crew are already inside their getaway car, a white van that definitely does not look like an ice-cream truck, by the time he and Steve arrive – Clint in the driver’s seat, Natasha riding shotgun, and Bruce and Thor in the back.

“You kids all strapped in?” Clint calls as he turns the engine on. “Remember, seatbelts on at all—”

Tony rolls his eyes, slipping into the seat next to Bruce. “Just drive, you asshole.”

Clint cackles as he floors it.

The ride back is tense and silent. Usually, they would’ve put on some music or Thor would’ve filled the silence with loudly boasting their victories. Tonight definitely would’ve earned such a celebration. They managed to get away without anyone none the wiser despite a minor setback.

Then again, none of their past heists ended with any one of them making out with one another.

Steve hasn't looked his way, let alone uttered a word to Tony since the kiss. Tony has never felt so hollow in his life.

“Hey, Bruce?” Clint begins, breaking the silence because he’s a major dickhead. “I was wondering if you have footage of Steve and Tony sucking—”

Natasha sighs. “Drop it, Clint.”

“But—”

“Barton,” Tony warns lowly, not in the mood, “shut up or I’ll throw out your hearing aids.”

Clint’s eyes narrow. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“You willing to bet your aids on them?”

“Hey, you could always replace them—”

“I won't if you don't shut the fuck _up_.”

An uneasy stillness befalls them. Tony won't deny that he has a temper. Maybe not as aggressive as Bruce's or quick like Steve's. It's usually disguised with snarky or passive-aggressive comments.

But Tony is sick and tired and ready to leave the van and leave the city. Suddenly, Iceland doesn't seem so bad.

“Music anyone?” Bruce offers weakly after an eternity of silence.

Thor brightens up at that. “A splendid idea! I have just the tune in mind to celebrate our victory!”

Several groans fill the van, including Tony.

So much for not hearing ‘We are the Champions’ on loop for the next thirty minutes.

But like always, everyone ends up singing along in varying keys as soon as the first verse ends, including Tony.

Moral of the story – Queen makes everything better.

* * *

Fury waits for them in the meeting room, tapping on the table impatiently. Natasha strides up to him wordlessly, handing over her messenger bag.

“Good work, everyone,” he says as once he checks the contents. “Well, you know the drill. I’ll have Hill wire it to your accounts as soon as it comes in.”

“That is if the Grandmaster is willing to pay what he promised,” Thor grumbles.

“He will,” Fury assures as he makes his way to the exit. He never sticks around for the afterparty, always slinking back to where he came from. Until the next heist, that is. “But if you’re still on the fence, you can always ask your brother for help.”

Clint breaks into a fit of giggles, earning a slap to the back of his head by Natasha.

* * *

Like every post-heist, they celebrate with alcohol and banter. At some point, Thor whips out his homemade ale, which he assures would kill every person who’s not Norwegian. If Tony’s fatigue hasn’t been gradually catching up with him, he would’ve put up a challenge.

Hell, he isn't in the mood to even celebrate either, ready to run upstairs and book a flight out of the city. But Natasha had flashed him one steely glare and well, Tony values his dick very much.

“So,” Clint begins after Bruce finishes his story involving one of his students fist-fighting the college’s resident goose (Tony can’t believe a goose could be capable of _that_), “whatcha guys up to afterwards?” He points his bottle in Thor’s direction. “I bet you’re going to be meeting up with Jane.”

Thor nods. “Jane and I have plans to journey to Greece. She has a conference there.”

Bruce perks up at that. “Oh, is she attending the one at the National Observatory of Athens next week?”

“Yes. She and Doctor Erik Selvig are keynote speakers there.”

“Oh cool. I was actually thinking of going. Their topic sounds fascinating.”

Thor grins. “Then we shall journey to New Mexico together!”

Bruce falters but there’s an unmistakable hope behind his eyes. “I don’t—”

“Nonsense!” Thor exclaims, swinging his bottle around, sprinkling ale over the couch. “Jane and Selvig would be delighted to have you accompany us on our journey!”

Clint scoffs as Thor and Bruce continue their conversation. “Nerds,” he mutters before taking a long gulp from his beer bottle. “What ‘bout you, Tasha? Going on a romantic getaway with your beau?”

Natasha presses her lips together. “None of your business, Barton.”

Clint clutches his heart, gasping in shock. “Tasha! How could—? I—?”

Steve snorts into his own beer can and Tony suddenly feels like sinking into the floor.

“—pain! The pain I feel in my—”

Tony jumps to his feet, his eyes stinging. “And this is when I take my leave.”

Natasha arches an eyebrow, zeroing in on him with a calculated gaze. Goddamn her and her observation skills.

“It’s midnight,” she points out before kicking Clint in the shin.

“Ow!”

“And I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a week,” Tony counters, which is a half-truth. He still doesn’t meet their eyes and fuck, he could feel Steve staring at him and— “Sides’, I think I need to make a call to Pep. She’s been hounding me these past few days.”

“I thought she and Rhodey were the ones that made you take this vacation in the first place.”

Tony lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug as he turns to the stairs. “I think she just wants to make sure I haven’t secretly resigned as CEO.” He tosses a wave behind him. “Anyway, you guys have fun without me.”

A chorus of farewells and good nights fills the room before reverting back to their original conversations. 

Tony almost slumps in relief and exhaustion when he’s in the confinements of his room.

Now that he’s a little buzzed and alone, the weight of everything that has transpired during the last couple of weeks come crashing down on him.

Fuck. He literally made out with Steve. After everything, after swearing he’ll never lay a hand on Steve, he did that. He made things worse, so much worse.

If Steve had thought their friendship is worth salvaging, he wouldn’t think so now.

Tony groans as he slumps against his door, knocking his head backwards.

Maybe he could go into hiding again. But this time, he’ll make it permanent. He’ll step down as CEO, relinquish it to Pepper, fake his death, forge a new identity, and hole up in a cabin in the middle of a Canadian forest. At least the wild animals and trees can’t judge him for making shitty decisions.

He’s in the middle of popping the last button of his shirt when he hears a rap against his door.

Tony frowns as he twists behind. It’s probably Clint or Thor, trying to coax him back downstairs for another round.

“I already told you,” he says as he moves to unlock the door. “I’m not going to—”

The words die in his throat because it’s not Clint or Thor on the other side.

It’s Steve.

Tony almost slams the door in his face had Steve not stuck his foot out.

“Can we talk?” he asks, sounding wounded, which is not a tone Tony wants to hear right now, god, he can’t deal with this. Not now. Not ever.

This has to be Natasha’s doing. Again.

“Talk about what?”

Steve purses his lips. “I think… I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Tony does a double-take. “A misunderstanding?”

Steve sighs wearily as he tugs at his collar, glancing behind him. “Look, can I come in?”

A huge part of Tony is tempted to just shut the door in his face and put himself out of his misery. But then Steve’s piercing him with those eyes and ugh—

“You’re the worst,” Tony grumbles as he steps aside.

Steve’s smile is feeble as he heads inside, settling on the edge of Tony’s bed. Tony shuts the door behind them with a quiet click.

“Um.”

Tony turns around, following Steve’s line of sight and freezes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, fastening the buttons back in place.

“It’s fine,” Steve answers awkwardly, glancing around at anywhere but Tony.

His heart plummets. If there were any traces of hope in Tony that Steve would ever look at him twice, it’s gone now. 

How could he even think that Steve would like him? Tony was shirtless when he woke up the morning after they slept together. Which means Steve had seen his scars in the daylight and ran off like every other else because he finally saw Tony for who he is – disgusting and worthless.

“So,” Tony starts, “what’d you want to talk about? Is it about the kiss?”

Steve lifts his head up. “I—”

“Look, you don’t have to explain yourself. I know you came for me because you were worried I’d get caught. I appreciate it. I really do. Even if you got fired in the end, which it kinda worked out in the end because it’s not like the guard job’s your real job. But still. I violated what we agreed on. We agreed to stay friends and I—”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Tony flinches.

“You said you wanted to be friends,” Steve continues bitterly. “But you’ve been avoiding me. Every time I try to talk to you about anything except the heist, you bolt and I—” He squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in a breath. “I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

Tony’s lips part in shock. “What?”

Steve smiles weakly. “That night. The night we had sex. I ran out in the morning without a word and ignored your texts for weeks. I ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tony answers immediately. “I don’t blame you for reacting like that. I mean… I was drunk. I took advantage of—”

“_We_ were both drunk,” Steve corrects. “And you didn’t take advantage of me. I agreed to sleep with you.” Tony opens his mouth. “And I know you. You would never sleep with someone who can’t consent when you can.”

“It still doesn’t excuse…” Tony fiddles with the top button of his shirt, his body humming with nerves, “Look, it was a mistake. Whatever happened between us that night was complicated and hell, even just now… It doesn’t have to mean anything. Don’t worry. I don’t make passes at straight—”

“I’m not straight.”

Tony’s jaw glues shut, his eyes widening. He slowly tilts his head upwards, locking eyes with Steve’s own. They’re hardened with determination.

“Did you just—? Did you imply what I think you just implied?”

Steve nods. “I’m bisexual. I’m bisexual and always have been and I’m in love with you, you stupid, _stupid_ man.”

And just like that Tony’s world turned upside down.

Because what the fuck? What the _fuck_?

“You’re… You’re in love with me,” Tony forces out. He shakes his head as he paces around the room, trying to wrap his head around the idea that— that— “Since when?”

“Since the Malaysia heist.”

“The Malaysia—” Tony exhales deeply. “That was ten years ago!”

Steve flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Ten years and four months ago, to be exact.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking a breath. “Jesus. Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

This is a dream. It has to be. He’s dreaming and he’s going to wake up alone and miserable and Steve out of his life forever.

Because Tony’s unlovable. No one loves him. No one stays. Not even Steve that night. He left. He left him all alone in a king-size bed with the sun in his face and without a message. And he never bothered reaching out until Tony almost drank to death.

And here he is suddenly declaring his all-consuming affection for him? For Tony fucking Stark?

Tony shortens the distance between Steve and him, leaving a couple of inches between them. Steve’s fingers tighten around the edge of the bed.

“So, let me get this straight,” Tony begins, “you’re telling me that somehow you fell in love with me on our first heist together and never spoke nor hinted about it since. And three months ago, somehow, some-fucking-how, we ended up sleeping together. And yeah, I know we were drunk, shut up. That’s not the point. And you, who’s supposedly in love with pathetic old me, ran out without a word and ghosted me for months.”

Steve pales.

“You left. Without a note or message or a sign that you’re still breathing and the fact that you got mad at me for ghosting you boggles my mind when you did it too, by the way. And you expect me to believe that—?” Tony shakes his head vehemently. “You’re not in love with me.”

Stunned disbelief crosses Steve’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Me. We’re talking about me, aren’t we?” Tony jabs a finger at his chest. “We’re talking about you’re in love with me, right? That you fell for me while we were yelling at each other. Which means you’re mistaking attraction and love and frankly, I expected better from—”

“I know the difference!” Steve bellows with such intensity that Tony instinctively takes a step back. Regret flashes over his face and he quickly reels himself back in, “I know the difference. And I know what I feel for you is love. It’s real. It always has been. I’ve loved you for so long. I—”

“God, Steve!” Tony exclaims. “I’m a fuckup. You could have anyone! Why would you settle on—?”

“Because they’re not you!” Steve interrupts fiercely. “They don’t moonlight as conmen to donate to charity. They don't drop everything just to binge-watch_ Dog Cops _with Clint just because he asked. They don’t walk ten blocks just to find the one coffee shop that actually has sesame seed bagels. They don’t—”

“Don’t need to hear you wax poetry about me,” Tony interrupts.

“I can wax poetry all I like.”

“Well, I didn’t—” 

“The point is,” Steve says, “you’re not a fuckup. They’re wrong. Your father, Stane, the media. Everyone. You’re amazing and brilliant and everything that you think you’re not. You rebuilt your company, donate the reward money every time without fail, and it’s a privilege to know you. To fall in love with you.”

For the millionth that night, Tony is rendered speechless. He hates being speechless.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Tony gnaws the bottom of his lip. “I’ll ruin you,” he whispers.

Steve deflates, the fire behind his eyes extinguished. He reaches out, curling his fingers around Tony’s arm. A tremour courses down Tony’s spine. He’s so warm. Steve’s so warm and Tony _aches_.

“You won’t.”

They don’t speak for what feels like forever. Tony allows himself to soak in the silence, the comfort and warmth radiating from Steve, the feel of his pulse quickens and slows down simultaneously. Tony feels Steve shudder.

“I’m so sorry I left,” Steve says quietly. “I thought you wouldn’t want me. That you’d wake up regretting everything and I got scared. I was scared and I panicked and I didn’t want to know so I…” He shuts his eyes, his features twisted in pain. “I know that doesn’t excuse me for what I’ve done to you. I drove you to drink and you wound up in the hospital, for fuck’s sake.”

“Steve—”

If anyone that should be thinking that they’re out of anyone’s league, it’s me. I don’t deserve you.” Steve droops his head. “_I’m_ the fuckup.”

Tony just stares at him.

The audacity. The fucking audacity of this man.

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Tony declares, “you, my good sir, are an idiot.”

He drops onto Steve’s lap and kisses him hard.

* * *

The first thought that crosses Tony’s head when he wakes is that he should’ve closed the fucking blinds.

A guttural groan tumbles out of his lips as he reaches to his left in search of a pillow to block out that goddamn sun and its annoying rays.

Instead, his fingers brush over a face.

“Well, that’s one way to wake me up.”

Tony stiffens for a split second before relaxing. That’s when he notices the arm draped over his bare chest.

Steve lies on his side next to him, looking far happier than Tony had seen him in a long time.

And he’s naked. Steve’s naked and so is Tony and oh, would you look at that. There’s a bruise etched into Steve’s neck.

Which means that last night happened. Last night actually happened.

“Morning,” Steve murmurs, brushing his lips over the shell of Tony’s ear. A shiver trails down his spine, Steve’s beard tickling him.

Tony wonders what it’ll be like when Tony managed to grow back his goatee and Steve shaving his beard off. Kissing Steve would feel incredible.

“Morning. You’re still here I see,” Tony rasps, cringing at how sore his throat is. He anticipated this though, by the way he and Steve were going on last night.

God, he hopes no one overheard. Tony doubts he’ll be able to live this down for a long time.

“I am,” Steve says reassuringly. “And I don’t plan on leaving. Ever again.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You do know that we need to pee at some point, right?”

Steve snorts. “You know what I mean,” he says as he reaches over to trace Tony’s chest scars with his fingers. Shivers shoot through Tony.

Tony has always been insecure about his scars. All of Tony’s previous bed partners had hated his scars, insisting he kept his shirt on during sex without fail. And every single time, he had obliged, fearing for what they’d say post-coital.

But Steve did the complete opposite. He had gently asked permission to peel Tony’s shirt off him and when the cloth finally hit the floor, Steve had stared at them with awe, skimmed his fingers over them, and peppered them with delicate kisses.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, the final nail in the coffin.

God, everything that’s happened in the last god knows how many hours have been surreal. Tony still won’t rule out the possibility of this all being a dream, that he’s going to wake up at any moment to an empty bed, clothed and miserable.

It doesn’t seem to be the case so far.

“You’re going back to SI soon?”

“Probably,” Tony replies. “You going back to Marvel?”

“Probably,” Steve echoes, continuing his grazing with his fingernails. A pleasurable sigh escapes Tony’s lips. “I don’t think I’m needed back right now though. Sam’s still working on the story for the next issue.”

The rational part of Tony is urging him to let Steve return to his life and Tony to his. And maybe when their schedules permit them, they could meet up. Go on a proper date at some fancy restaurant or catch a movie. 

But his heart… His stupid, weak heart…

“I have this island,” Tony says before his mind could catch up with him. If it all goes south, he could always blame it on the lack of caffeine in his system. “Private island. Should be nice and toasty this time of year. Not like Iceland. That place was freezing cold. And it’s summer there, can you believe it? But yeah, the island’s pretty tiny but you know, it’s a private island for a reason y’know? Anyway, I have a villa up there and it’s pretty amazing. There’s a jacuzzi, which yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense since the villa’s on an island, but hey, it’s amazing. And I have a huge library that you’ll love and oh yeah, I have an empty room which you could definitely convert into an art studio and…” He trails away, twisting around to meet Steve’s unreadable expression.

God, this is where he fucks up, isn’t it? Steve has finally realized how needy and disgustingly privileged he is.

This is why no one sticks around. And for good reason too. He’s clingy and has no respect for boundaries and—

Steve smiles softly. “Okay.”

Tony starts at that, sitting upright. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve repeats, resting his palm against Tony’s waist.

“I mean, if you want to— You don’t—”

“I do,” Steve insists in such an affectionate tone and god, Tony has never been spoken to in that way. “I want to. So much.”

Tony’s shoulders relax, a smile creeping up his lips. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve breaks into a playful grin. “But you know, we could still go to Iceland. I heard the Northern Lights are really beautiful this time of the year.”

Tony rolls his eyes before he presses forward, eager to wipe the smirk off Steve’s face.

There’s not much talking after that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://nethandrake.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/kapteniron)


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